Quotes About Despair

I'm dying and all I hear are insults!

I'm depressed! I'm completely depressed! I am firmly convinced that there is no one in this world who really likes me!" "So what else is new?

I was jumping rope. Everything was fine. And then suddenly everything seemed so futile.

because casinos are really good at taking people's money and making them feel worse than they did when they walked in, they offer live entertainment to medicate the malaise. Or lessen the blow.

If this is how all our hopes and love and good intentions end, then why not put a bullet through each one of us and call it a day? Why put us here, give us each other, and fill us with dreams and gifts and expressions, only to spill them across the street like cheap paint!

The world with its miseries may be a problem difficult to reconcile with the existence of God; but that same world without God is a far greater problem, leaving exactly the same miseries to be endured in hopeless despair.

I saw an infinity of such dreary evenings stretching out ahead of me. Trapped in a dirty old house with a grieving old woman and an irritable young one. And with only the books I had brought with me, most of which were still in my trunk anyway.

The kind of people I know now don't have barbecues, Mama. They stand up alone at nights in small rooms and eat cold weenies. My so-called friends are bums. Many of them are nothing but rats. They spread T.B. and use dirty language. They're wife-beaters and window peepers and night crawlers and dope fiends. They have running sores on the backs of their hands that never heal. They peer up from cracks in the floor with their small red eyes and wait for chances.

Mrs. Whichcoat came in the back door with an empty wire basket. She hung it up in the pantry and took off her brown garden gloves. "All the hens have stopped laying," she said. "I didn't get one egg." There was a note of despair in her voice but no surprise. It was as though she had warned all along that there would be treachery one day in the hen house.

Never since the beginning of the world has there been so little light. Our winter afternoons have been known at times to last a hundred years.

They wheeled out the ash blonde who believes herself already dead into the spike-fenced garden of the hospital for the insane. Her name was Amy or Ann, but she didn't answer to either one. She kept her eyes tightly shut. [...] Some of it was told to me by a shivering young man who insisted that it's been raining for years, even indoors. "Coming down real hard," he said.

One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.

The darker that all around us seems, the greater the despair in our temporal life, the more light that God shines upon us, the more we feel the power of the Holy Spirit within us.

I will not seek it," the other replied. "It has been opened once and it is enough. And you -- are you sure that man can conquer until he has been wholly defeated? Are you sure that he can find plenitude till he has known utter despair? You will not let him despair of himself, but it may be that only in such a complete despair he finds that which cannot despair and is something other than man.

Friday beneath the sky, its little postcards of melancholy Outside each window, the engines inside the roses at half speed, The huge page of the sea with its one word despair, Fuchsia blossoms littered across the deck, Unblotted tide pools of darkness beneath the ferns … And still I go on looking, match after match in the black air.

Hi-def is merely the latest in a string of evolutional leaps that have transformed the way we sit slumped in front of a box wishing we were dead.

Despair is a narcotic. It lulls the mind into indifference.

Things are as bad as you fear they are. People are as bad as you think they are. The Universe does not care.

You are going to die in front of dozens of witnesses, and none of them will do a thing to help you or avenge you. Because they know exactly what you know: The world is ending.

Somehow, the city of promise had become a scrap yard of dreams.

Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agised as in that hour left my lips: for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.

Matthew," she murmured, her voice breaking. "How can I save you?

This was not life, this was a nightmare.

It was not a pleasant evening. She tried to read, but the insistent gnawing thought that her life was done, and not very well done at that, appeared on every page. She tried to sew—but the work she had at hand was unsatisfactory. "It's only another failure!" she said to herself, and laid it down. She had no fancy work. If her books failed her she was lonely indeed.